


The Next Edgar Allan Poe

by uniformly



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Olympics, Social Media
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-10 23:45:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7866115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uniformly/pseuds/uniformly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens on Livejournal, stays on Livejournal. Or: the one where Leckie is a sportscaster and Runner is an Olympic champion, but before that they were friends on LJ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Next Edgar Allan Poe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rivlee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivlee/gifts).



> Unbeta'd. Just a quick fic to get my mind off other projects that continue to ruin me. As always: based on HBO representation, not mine, etc.
> 
> (This is me passing the baton to you, Shan /chinhands. But, no, seriously, thank you for the all the support and inspiration :D)

*

The comment reads, _You’re a sarcastic little shit, aren’t you?_ Runner snorts because, uh, yeah. He responds to **luckiest** as such, not bothering to capitalise his sentence and he leaves off the ‘h’ on _yeah_ ‘coz he can. The fact it grates on **luckiest** ’s nerves a bit – more than a bit even after all these years – is just an added bonus.

Runner checks the time. 6:30 PM means that Lucky is at dinner with his family, so Runner heads for a shower and stands under the hot water, letting it beat away the aches that come with the first day of training. Then he roughly scrubs himself dry, tosses on some clothes, and dives into bed.

Runner drags his laptop after him, sets it on his folded legs where the fan whirrs against his thigh, and, yes! There’s a new comment notification in his inbox. Runner clicks it with teeth tight over his bottom lip in a cursory effort to keep a grin at bay.

He loses quite spectacularly when he reads the response, which is basically his own reflected back at him with the necessary corrections.

“Oh, Lucky.”

Runner says it far too fond and he knows it, but he also knows that Lucky would have wracked his brains for a response and had only fallen back on the fail safe of corrections when he had turned up nothing. Possibly too tired after his AP classes – Lucky has at least three essays due in the next couple of weeks, Runner knows – or he can’t find it in him following the drama of an eight-person dinner table. It’s not the first time. Five siblings. Five.

Runner decides to be nice and shoots back a _thank u_ in response, and immediately adds to his own comment with another: _knew u’d have my 6._

He sets the laptop aside and stretches out on the bed, and then brings his leg up to dig his thumbs into the meat of his calf.

Another comment notification appears and Runner reaches across to click it open.

_How did training go?_

Runner types back: _Same old._ Then, _Everything hurts lol_

Lucky types back: _Only four more years until the next Olympics, Runner, best get used to it now._

-

Four years, some months, and a couple of long abandoned Livejournal accounts later, Runner thinks: _holy shit_.

The medal he’s won is on display, left to sit on top of his tracksuit where its only job is to glitter in the stadium lights: the sum of four years’ worth of blood, sweat, and tears.

People grab at him as they pass. They shout praises in his ear, and give him hugs which he accepts despite not knowing who they’re coming from. His face aches from smiling, and he feels like he could run it all again. Jesus, he could run it twice he’s so amped up; his body buzzes with it, makes it like he’s walking on air.

“Conley!” someone yells, their voice only just making it over the dull roar in his ears. It’s not his nerves this time either, as it had been when he had crouched at the starting blocks, heart thudding hard against his ribs. It comes from the stadium now, comes from the staggered row-upon-row of multi-coloured plastic chairs of people cheering. It’s a full house.

 “A word?” the media rep says.

“Yeah,” Runner hears himself say. Then he’s shoved in front of a camera, which he waves to with the same smile he’s pretty sure he’s worn since crossing the finish line on a PB.

It takes a long, long moment for the interview to start, and it’s only when the cameraman asks, “Bob?” that Runner realises this, and he shifts his focus from the camera to the man who’s supposed to be asking him things like _, how do you feel you went at your debut Olympics?_ Or _, what is the USA going to see from you after this?_

And it’s then – right then – when the commentator’s curly hair and stunned expression registers that Runner thinks, words faint in his own head, tumbling in on a tidal wave of entry posts and teenage poetry and intentionally misspelled comments that's then followed by the last post Lucky had made on LJ:  a picture of himself standing outside Melbourne airport that Runner had commented to, _you look like shit. How many kids were you stuck besides?_ It’s then that Runner thinks, _holy shit_.

Judging by the way Bob jerks the mic back, Runner might have said it out loud.

“Sorry,” Runner says, belatedly.

There’s a jostle behind him, Runner glancing back as a group of athletes swarm past, all gung-ho and high just from being in the podium, like they can taste the gold, silver, and bronze. Someone slaps a hand on Runner’s shoulder, yells at him, _good run!_ And is gone before Runner says anything back.

“Leckie,” the cameraman says, which prompts Lucky...—Leckie back into action, “Congratulations on the win. How did you feel you went?”

Runner can’t help the incredulity of his response, and he answers the same way he would have if they were in the comments section of LJ. “I came first, so I’d say pretty damn good.”

There’s a look on Leckie’s face, and it’s only after Leckie says some stock answer that Runner realises what the expression says.

It says: _You’re a sarcastic little shit, aren’t you?_

Runner tunes back to the conversation as Leckie asks, “Do you have any pre-race rituals?”

It takes Runner a second before he tells Leckie, “Yeah, sure.” Then, all too casually, “I’m fond of poems.”

Leckie’s hand tightens on his microphone.

Runner continues, “There’s this one I read ages ago and it goes: _There is a fight I know that happens in the dark / And I’m powerless to stop it though I know it’s there / I keep seeing you in it, hands raised and face smeared with your own blood / in my head and in my heart I scream for you to win.”_

“It makes me feel things, y’know?” Runner manages to say despite the laugh that’s bubbling in his chest. He has to clamp it down before it escapes, but he can’t help the grin that breaks out when Leckie goes, “Yes. Thank you. Poetry is a powerful thing.”

“Yeah,” Runner says, and makes it as earnest as he can when he continues: “I think the guy who wrote it could be the next Edgar Allan Poe.”


End file.
